


Red Meat

by cacophonyGilded



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prostitution, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacophonyGilded/pseuds/cacophonyGilded
Summary: Dean turns eighteen and thinks it's about time to supplement the family income.He might as well have fun doing it.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Red Meat

Dean has been looking forward to his eighteenth birthday.

Not that, you know, it means anything. His fake IDs have boldly proclaimed him over the age of majority since he was _fourteen,_ back when even the most apathetic of cashiers would roll their eyes at Dean’s technically flawless piece of plastic and tell him to get lost. He’s been passing as an adult for so long that the idea of legally being able to buy smokes or lotto tickets or what have you is no longer in the _ballpark_ of exciting to him, and besides, eighteen isn’t even the big one—what’s the point of being old enough that the government will “let” you join the military, but not get fantastically drunk? No thank you, man.

But he’s still been looking forward to it.

‘Cause, you know, being eighteen: that means he’s old enough to do two things, he means, two _real_ things. One of them’s voting.

Hard pass.

The other… 

Let’s just say that Dean has been looking for a way to supplement their income. Like with the cigarettes, it’s not like there’s been a real imposition on Dean up until now, keeping him from doing it. The jailbait thing might’ve even worked out for him; he knows it’s a huge turn-on for the pervert demographic. But these guys (and it is almost always guys, looking to pick up some pretty little roadwhore, which is fine by Dean, because, hey, money’s money) have some sort of sixth sense for underaged kids; it’s like they know they’ve got an advantage. Sure, they’re the ones who should be worrying about jail time, but it never works out that way—the bastards will be like, “Who, me? I’m just driving this runaway back into town before his mama starts worryin’. Careful, he bites,” if Dean so much as thinks about blackmailing them or even charging what his smart mouth is worth.

Or maybe Dean just isn’t bright enough to outwit these freaks. Well, that shouldn’t be his problem, he’s not out here to _think._ He’s out here to make a quick buck, for less effort than a few hours of hustling pool. All-in-all, it should be a good deal; this is the one final frontier his daddy never coached him through, but Dean’s pretty confident that he’s worked out the particulars on his own. Proud of that, even. And he knows that no matter what his face looks like, or no matter how unsteady he is on his feet when he makes his way back into the motel room, John won’t question where the money came from once he hands it over. He’ll just say, “Good job, Dean,” and that’ll be that.

Which is why it’s so important that he figures this out.

‘Cause now it _is_ Dean’s eighteenth birthday, the one he’s been looking forward to so earnestly; all the festivities (ha, ha) are over and the candles blown out, Sammy’s asleep and Dad’s out on the case, which means every t is dotted and every i is crossed and Dean’s basically got no _choice_ but to get his sweet ass on the street and start up a whole new kind of hustle.

(Maybe he should stick to pool, his mind suggests. But that’s quitter talk.)

He feels like a different man tonight.

Which is good.

Dean never felt like a child, of course, but standing in the not-quite-shadows of a bar his father would never darken the door to, shucked of his overshirt and just standing around, freckled and skinny, loose, _excited,_ he feels undeniably different. He’s not a hunter now. He’s not worried about his little brother, at home in bed. Sam’s safe. Dean just has to worry about himself, and it’s a betrayal to think that’s a relief, but he just turned eighteen, and the bartender didn’t even check his ID, and he’s a little bit tipsy in a way that makes him feel dangerous, and that makes him feel like he’s having _fun._

And so he feels different.

When the first sleazy men start to rake Dean over with their eyes like he’s the prey, and not the predator, it sends a thrill through him. Being seen by someone who could never know what they’re seeing. Being consumed like a choice piece of steak.

(Dean thinks that way when he wants to flatter himself. He’s medium-rare, mostly red meat. Raw. None of these guys have a clue that they’re about to bite down into beef that’s still bloody.)

He catches their eyes and exaggerates his assets—never knowing that what really draws them in hook line and sinker isn’t his ass or his pout but his striking eyes with the fluttering lashes Dean himself can’t even hardly keep in control of—and toys around with them like they’re a poltergeist he’s leading into a trap. When the time is right, Dean stalks out the front door and leans on the darkened side of the building. He never looks back to see if he’s being followed.

He always is.

And when he’s got the guy alone, he could rob him blind and be done with it, but that’s not what Dean does. He flirts, and laughs, and for once he feels like _he_ has all the cards—the glory of his eighteenth birthday. He tells the guy upfront that he’s no cheap date, and rather than kicking his ass to the curb, the creep just fumbles for his wallet and gives Dean what he asks for. More, even. Like a freakin’ _tip._

And everything else—everything else is just peaches. He’s already got the money burning a hole in his pocket. Now he unbuckles his jeans and slides to his knees and jerks himself off nice and slow while his mouth’s around a cock, and yeah, he can admit that he enjoys this. Hey, there’s nothing gay about being gay for pay, alright? He likes winning pool, too, and this is the same concept—only far more lucrative. And it’s impossible to _lose_ at sucking dick.

It sounds all kinds of wrong when he thinks it in concrete terms, but Dean has been saving his ass virginity for tonight. Mostly because, come on, it warrants a special occasion. He threw away his real v-card on a chick around the time his fakes started saying he was old enough to do so, but there’s at least a subtle difference between slobbering on some guy’s hog for twenty dollars and, you know—giving it all up. Dean doesn’t give a shit about what the law has to say, he’s been a man since long before he reached that magical one eight on his driver's license, but maybe an arbitrary checkpoint means something in this one and only case—maybe he needs _someone’s_ permission, even if it’s fucking Bill Clinton’s, or whoever his representative is supposed to be this time around, he can’t even remember; what state are they in, again?

Anyway, so Dean’s been saving it.

He doesn’t give it up to the first guy, who seems too nervous, too flighty, like he just wants to get off and get out of here. Probably has a wife waiting at home—typical closet case, Dean thinks with a roll of his eyes. He doesn’t let the second guy have it, either; that one apparently missed the “pay” part of Dean’s gay for, and acts all offended when Dean tells him his price, which—okay, he could probably send the prissy fag off nicer, but what would be the point? Acting all hurt when Dean says he has to shell out, Christ. What’s the world coming to?

But the third guy, well, he’s looking at Dean like he’s a burger with all the fixings, and Dean’s happy to play that role. He gets paid for his toppings (no pun intended), and that’s all the encouragement _Dean_ needs—he gets taken for what he’s worth with his face pressed and scratching against the rough brick of the bar’s facade, and it’s so good he’s kind of silently weeping with it. The dude pulls out and wipes himself off and tucks himself in, and for a second, Dean doesn’t even notice, because he’s too focused on remembering how to breathe.

He sucks a few more dicks after that, but it doesn’t compare. Dean’s crouching there in a back alley with his ass aching, feeling all empty all of a sudden, and _that’s_ not cool, not on _his_ eighteenth birthday, so he wraps it up. He’s been drinking pretty hard in between these little appointments, to tell the truth, and it’s about that time anyway that he’d normally start having to ask himself difficult questions about whether or not he can really trust himself to do whatever stupid thing he’s about to do next, so it’s not all that heartbreaking to call it a night, limping back to the motel with $500 in his pockets and a dopey grin on his face.

To neither Dean’s surprise nor, really, relief, Dad isn’t home yet when Dean blows in the door reeking of whiskey and screaming of _cocksucker._ He does a quick check on Sammy who’s, yep, still sleeping, still alive, and then collapses with his shoes on down into his own twin bed, arms folded behind his head, dumbass smile still lingering, not even bothering to get himself under the covers. The alcohol in his blood will keep him more than warm enough.

All Dean can feel in the final minutes of consciousness is the pleasant overheating of his face and the pleasant-er throb of pain in his butt, and it’s nice. Even as he slips down into unconsciousness, he begins to make half-hearted, sleep-deprived plans toward going out again the first time he gets a chance, because he’d been right—this is an _excellent_ way to supplement their income.

Fake IDs or not, Dean knows: he had been so right to look forward to his eighteenth birthday.

**Author's Note:**

> ...uh, yeah. guess who started watching supernatural.


End file.
